


Everything that Could Have Been Mine

by freezerjerky



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Post Reichenbach, meeting at the wrong place and time, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 17:48:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/445830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freezerjerky/pseuds/freezerjerky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don’t meet in 2010. They met before then, and after, but that connection, that instant of mutual acknowledgement never really occured at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything that Could Have Been Mine

They don’t meet in 2010. They met before then, and after, but that connection, that instant of mutual acknowledgement never really occured at all.

Once, for half an hour when John was twelve, they played together in the park. Harry was being annoying and he left her to go talk to the quiet boy in the sandbox. They decided to pretend to unearth a dead body. John imagined what it would be like being friends with this kid, this brilliant, knobby kneed boy with a shock of dark hair.

There was a second time, too, at a club when John was still in med school. He was dancing with some friends, with the girlfriend who was cheating on him with his best mate at the time, and he’d never felt out of place. Across the dance floor, he saw him, the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, dancing like he was a slave to the music, moving his hips, promising sex and danger and everything John would never have.

“Fucking junkie,” John’s mate Tom said, glaring over at the man. “He stole my wallet the other night when I tried to buy him a drink.”

Danger. Right. Best not to dive into that, then.

The come the years where danger comes, the army, Afghanistan, coming back half-broken and injured. He limped around London for months until one day he was offered a job somewhere far away. London, like many other things in John Watson’s life, was never meant to be.

 

He came down to London every few months, just to get a bit of excitement. The quiet country life didn’t suit him very well, admittedly, but at least he always had pretty girls to talk to and a steady job. There were worse things than having to walk around with a cane. He resigned himself to this fact. _It could be worse, you could be dead._ He would repeat this time and time again, but then quietly add to himself another truth. _But aren’t you really only half alive?_

It was about a year after when he should have met him, standing in line at a shop. He clutched the scarf he was buying for his sister as he studied the back of the man ahead of him. Tall, dark hair, the coat looked very expensive, far more expensive than John saw any reason for something to be. The man whipped his head, attention caught by something momentarily. It was an arresting sight for John, aristocratic profile, indecipherable almost inhuman eyes, and there was a flash of something inside of him. He recognized the face, had seen him in the papers.

The man ahead of him was that detective, the one with the razor sharp mind who could tell what town you were from just by looking at the mud on your shoes or some other nonsense. There was a tug at his heart, some sense of camaraderie, and he imagined it, something he didn’t think possible: a life by the side of a man like this.

He could shoot, he could run, or he used to be able to, God he loved running. Sherlock Holmes had very long legs, but John knew he could keep up. He could chase anyone down an alley, could determine time of death, he’d make the man his bloody tea if that’s what he wanted. He imagined it, killing for this man, living for this man. He was difficult, wasn’t he? John was up for the challenge.

“You need to bloody clean the flat,” he’d say, staring at him across the room. But he wouldn’t, no, he never would. John would take that, though, in exchange for the adrenaline, the rush that he was missing more than anything.

He’d go to the crime scenes beside the detective, call him amazing, brilliant, whatever came to mind, and the man, this possibly insane man would smile at him, of all bloody things, he’d smile at him, and John would suddenly feel alive again.

“I love you,” he’d confess one night, probably just an ordinary night while he’s doing dishes or watching telly. He’d say it more to the air than Sherlock.

“You’re not gay,” Sherlock would answer, but he’d take his face in his hands and kiss him without hesitation, because no, John is decidedly not, but he’s in love with danger and intelligence and excitement and feeling alive.

He heard the detective’s voice then, for what he thinks is the first time, a rich baritone, slightly posh, even arrogant. It’s pure sex to John and that’s when he began to imagine even more: tangled sheets, warm, sweaty bodies, the feeling of being surrounded, of being owned, of being loved and he wanted it. God, he wanted it, and he doesn’t even understand why, but he doesn’t really care.

He dropped the scarf and headed after the man, like the fool he was, moving as fast as he could with the impediment of his cane.

“Excuse me,” he started, “aren’t you-“

“Psychosomatic,” the genius muttered before making his way out of the door.

He was right, of course he was right.

 

“Suicide of Fake Genius” the headlines stated. John didn’t believe it, because the complete stranger knew that his limp was psychosomatic, and John himself didn’t even know that. He posted about it on his blog. A few army friends read it, his sister asked him if he had a crush, but nothing more was said about it.

 

Then it happened. After a long day at work, he returned to his flat, his boring, tan all over flat that meant nothing to him. John flicked on the switch and immediately stood stock still. In his chair, his boring, tan chair, sat a man in a three piece suit with the air of owning the place, owning the world.

“Doctor Watson, do take a seat.”

He sunk onto the sofa, staring at the man, not sure what to say.

“I know how to kill people,” he went with at last.

“Yes, I know, and that’s exactly why I need you. One of the men in my employ happened across your little blog and found an interesting entry dating a few days back.”

“Listen, I don’t mean any trouble, I don’t know Sherlock Holmes, I’ve never met the man, I just don’t believe he’s a fake.”

“Another reason why you are needed. You’ve extensive military training, have proven loyal time and time again to your country, are a capable enough doctor despite the tremor in your hand. You really do need a better therapist, Doctor Watson.”

“Wait,” he paused. “What the hell do you need me for?”

“I need you to care for someone very important to me, keep him hidden and safe.”

“Listen, I’m just a regular bloke, I don’t have what it takes to keep someone safe like that.”

“No,” the man stated, rather coolly. “You’re exactly what we need, ordinary, but capable, kind, human, a friend.”

“Thanks, I think.”

“Yes, well. You can come out now,” the man called. “Stop hiding in his bedroom.”

The man in question then stepped out, tall, thin, looking down at everything John owned and scrutinizing it.

“How-“ John stated. “He’s dead.”

“Apparently not,” Sherlock said, breaking into something like a grin. But not quite, not yet.

“My brother is in grave danger, obviously, and also on a dangerous mission. I need you to watch over him and keep him safe while he’s busy taking down the rest of…”

John didn’t hear the rest, because his mind had gone to the musings he had months ago, the chases, the quiet nights, the tangled sheets. _It could happen,_ he realized. _I could have this._ He started grinning like a mad man until he heard that baritone cut in.

“So, Doctor Watson, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

**Author's Note:**

> As per usual, non-beta'd, non-Brit-picked.
> 
> This is sort of my apology for not posting anything in over four months. I really have no excuse. Anyway, I may write more to this, which means that it will likely end up with an explicit rating at some point.
> 
> If anyone has any requests or wants to kick my ass about sequels I promised for pretty much all my other works, or has any fic requests, whatever really, follow me over at tumblr. (freezerjerky.tumblr.com)


End file.
